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53 Dream In NewYork state, the farms spread with familiar patient grace; the sky is big, a fabric of colors changing in the dazzling light, the worn wood of ancient barns, the timeless drag of farm critters. In the distance, I see the trail of a train, crawling south, naming the mystery of cities, keys to my heart. I long for the simple smells of swamp earth, the fingers of the soil holding me. In this reverie, dreaming my body toward the factory where we make bombs it is easy to forget the dancing lights circling the stern street-lamp there on Moore Street, the flashing scared eyes of the Klansmen; boys I know I seen naked, heard bawl, aflame with something searing, the sick hate of a boy-child for a mother wanting so much to be a man among men, willing to slaughter love for the company of masculine smells, grunts, laughter. 54 I turn away from the memory, longing for the swamp only. The train whistles soft through the big space. Time is still. I linger. ...


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